


between the vain and the valuable

by amberwoods



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:57:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11491650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberwoods/pseuds/amberwoods
Summary: After the war, Ginny takes up painting. Her work is abstract and a little disturbing, but she finds someone who truly appreciates it in Blaise Zabini.





	between the vain and the valuable

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Cold War by Foreign Figures

Wars don’t disappear when they stop – they rage on. They simply become invisible.

Ginny felt the war inside of her for years after Voldemort was defeated. She felt it in her bones, in the sensory overload she experienced, in the vicious pumping of her heart, screaming for _something._

She started tearing herself apart.

She took boxing classes to get rid of the rage and fought until her knuckles were scarred and still bleeding. She threw herself into Quidditch and kept _going_ and _going_ until she had broken more bones than she could count.

They were talking about locking her up – _just to help her, just to guide her –_ when she found another way.

It was a muggle therapist she’d started visiting in secret who suggested painting – and when Ginny took up the brush, it became _art_.

It became splashes of red and black and green, blotches of dark, crooked light scratching the surface, smudges of colour wiped across the canvas with her bare hands, paint under her nails, paint in her hair, paint in her ears and eyes – _she_ became art.

And finally, finally, the storm had an outlet.

Her mother cried when she saw the first painting. Not everyone understood them. The important thing was that _she_ understood them. So she kept painting.

Three years after the war, she had her first exposition. She should have been nervous, maybe, but she wasn’t. She was proud of her work. She was a Gryffindor – baring her soul to the world was something she did bravely.

She rented out a small hall and handed out invitations on the street. The exposition was completely open to the public and on the night itself she was surprised by who showed up and who didn’t.

There was only one who shook her.

Blaise Zabini owned an art museum, so he was always looking out for new talents. One of his meetings got called off that night and since he had nothing better to do, he decided to drop by Ginny Weasley’s exposition. If it was awful, at least he’d have something to complain about.

And it _was_ awful. Just not in the way he’d expected.

She saw him just as his eyes fell on one of her biggest canvases. The work was a blur of red and white, ragged and chaotic. When Blaise looked at him, his eyes widened.

He stared at the canvas, entranced, a look of horror spreading across his face. It was like he was seeing something other than the painting – as if it transported him somewhere else. To another time.

His expression triggered something in Ginny – she wanted to _paint­_ – and she walked up to him. She stopped beside him and looked at the painting with him.

“You look like I felt,” she said.

Blaise kept his eyes on the painting. When she glanced at him, she thought he might be tearing up.

“It’s raw,” he said, his voice rough and crackling like a smouldering fire.

“ _We_ are raw,” Ginny answered.

They looked at the painting again. The buzz around them seemed to disappear.

 “What’s it called?” Blaise asked.

“Riddle.”

Because Ginny Weasley did not hide. She called things as they were.

Now Blaise looked at her and Ginny was taken aback by the pure _fire_ in his gaze. He was a burning fuse.

“When can I call you?” he asked.

“Anytime,” Ginny stammered, a little startled and not considering how this might sound to someone else.

“Good.”

Blaise took one more long look at the painting and then he whirled around, walking away from it with brusque steps. Before long, he had disappeared outside, leaving Ginny baffled and a little cold.

* * *

 

As it turns out, Blaise Zabini took things very literally, and anytime meant _anytime_.

That’s why a week later, Ginny woke up in the middle of the night because of the incessant ringing of her cell phone. She muffled a groan in her pillow and picked it up, mumbling an annoyed greeting.

“Ginevra. I’m glad I caught you.”

This time, she groaned out loud. “Seriously?” she asked in frustration.

He was quiet for a moment and she wondered whether he was checking the time. “You did say anytime,” he then said, _almost_ apologetically.

“I meant any _human_ time, good _God_ , Zabini. It’s _sleeping time_ right now.”

“I am a diagnosed insomniac.”

“Well, my condolences.” But despite her grumbling, she did push herself up on her forearms. “Why’d you call?”

“I’d like to offer you a job.”

“You- what?”

“Only temporarily, of course. I mean to put together an exposition on post-war art. I’d like you to put it together.”

“That- okay- whoa, uh- why, exactly?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Why do I want to have this exposition?”

“Why me?” she blurted out.

“You seem to have an eye for it.”

That was one way to put it.

“Okay. Alright. We’ll talk about it.”

“We _are_ talking about it, Ginevra.”

“No, we are not. I am not a functioning human being before I’ve had my first cup of coffee and it is _technically_ Wednesday already. So.”

He sighed. “I suppose,” he said begrudgingly.

Well, if he was going to wake her up in the middle of the night, he’d better suck it up. He could have expected this.

“We’ll talk,” she promised, “Tomorrow. I’ll ring you.” She wondered for a moment. “Any particular time _you’re_ usually asleep?” she then asked.

“I’m an insomniac,” he repeated.

She waited.

“I suppose I normally nod off between two and four.”

“Now we’re being honest. I’ll call you in the morning then.”

“Fine.”

“I’m going back to sleep now. Goodnight, Blaise.”

His name rolled off her tongue without any hesitation. It felt right.

“Goodnight, Ginevra.”

* * *

She did call him in the morning – _after_ her cup of coffee – and they came to an arrangement that propelled her into the world of museum art hunting. It was a world full of meetings and expositions and networking and soon coffee and Blaise were her closest companions.

Blaise didn’t talk much, but he was amazing at his job. Possibly because of his lack of sleep, he got more work done in a day than most people could in a week. He was sarcastic and passionate and had seemed to found his true match in the subject he’d chosen for this exposition. Finding post-war art almost became an obsession for him and Ginny was astonished by the fire that art could light in him. It was beautiful.

They spent hours in his office at the museum, him behind the desk, her in his green velvet lounging chair, a notebook on her pulled up knees and cups of coffee beside them. They discussed what they were looking for endlessly and looked over pictures of artworks together, comparing them and lining them up, trying to decide which ones would add to their collection organically and which one would interrupt the flow.

Soon, the velvet chair in Blaise’s office became like a second home to Ginny. It was comfortable, and she felt comfortable with Blaise. She started taking off her shoes when she came in, pacing the floors on her socks or pulling up her legs onto the chair. She couldn’t sit still very well and Blaise had to get used to the way she’d move in a chair when she was thinking hard – regularly ending up with her feet _anywhere_ but the floor.

He was a complete opposite to her. His fire was in his eyes and voice – he stayed still in his chair for hours, like a statue, working until his brain must have got fried. Ginny had never seen anyone work that hard, except maybe Percy. There was something almost feverous about it. It was as if Blaise was exorcising something through his work.

And, considering their subject, maybe he was.

She started bringing her sketchbook besides her usual notepad after about a month. It just felt right, somehow. The museum had become a safe place for her.

It wasn’t long before he caught her.

“What’s that?”

She looked at the open sketch book on her knees, considering the question. _What exactly was it?_

“It’s my sketch book,” she then said. She held it up half-heartedly, just high enough for him to glimpse the contents.

“It’s…” He fumbled with words for a moment. “Realistic.”

“Ah, yes.” She smiled at him. “The war is for canvases. I can’t put that down on paper. But I concentrate better when I’m doodling, so I’ve taken up doing portraits in pencil.”

“Were you drawing me?”

She had been, actually. She’d been drawing him a lot lately. He had the chiselled face of a model, after all, and his subtle expressions were a challenge she had found herself unable to pass up on.

She glanced up at him sheepishly. “Do you mind?”

She never asked, for fear that people would say they _did_ mind. That was wrong of her, she knew that. But she needed it. And she wasn’t bothering anyone.

But Blaise shook his head. “No. I don’t mind.”

She smiled at him in relief. “Thank you.”

“Will you show me?”

She hesitated for a moment, but then shrugged and held up her sketch book for him to see. “Least I could do, I suppose.”

He didn’t take it. “I don’t want you to feel forced to.”

Ginny smiled. “Then only look at this page, please.”

He nodded and carefully took the sketch book from her outstretched hand, as if it was something valuable. He looked at the sketch she’d made of him carefully. “It’s pretty,” he then said.

Ginny felt a blush bloom on her cheeks. “Thanks.”

* * *

Blaise’s insomnia still disturbed her a little. She worked all-nighters with him, so she knew what he was like in the middle of the night – normal. It’s like he never tired. He just kept going, robotically, even if the shadows beneath his eyes were far darker than was healthy and his skin looked paler in the worst weeks. She knew that sometimes, he didn’t get a wink of sleep for days, and that if he slept at all it was mostly a few hours in the middle of the day. But even during this time, he was a very light sleeper and the slightest sound could wake him.

The first time Blaise fell asleep while Ginny was there, she held her breath. It was _intimate_ in a way she’d never been with anyone before. Blaise had to be very comfortable with her if his mental health allowed him to fall asleep with her in the room. She’d just been doodling a little in her chair, thinking over some of the things they’d just discussed, when she suddenly realised he’d been very quiet for a while. When she looked up, he’d nodded off, and it was something magical.

Fifteen minutes later someone came barging in with a question even though they _knew_ this was the only period of the day during which Blaise had even a _chance_ at falling asleep and he finally _had_. Blaise woke immediately and aside from a little drowsiness in his eyes he was just as sharp as always.

Ginny couldn’t help herself – she lashed out at the girl who’d come in. She was harsh, and a little rude, but, _honestly_ , couldn’t she have let him _sleep?_

But the girl just glanced at Blaise and then told Ginny, as if Blaise wasn’t in the room at all, that Blaise had told his employees that if anyone ever refrained from letting him know something important just because he was asleep, he would fire them.

That baffled Ginny and the girl quickly left, leaving Ginny to vent her anger at Blaise himself, because that was _ridiculous_ , he was an _insomniac_ , he needed all the sleep he could get!

He let her rage. When she quieted down, he just looked at her seriously, sternly, and told her that it was _his_ choice.

She stamped out of his office and did not come back for two days. When she finally showed up again, he just arched an eyebrow at her, as if to ask whether she would start again. Ginny just grumbled and went back to her spot on his chair.

(And if her collection now had a painting of frustrated green blotches, that didn’t mean anything, of course.)

It wasn’t until five months into their partnership that she actually saw him sleep.

They were nearing the end of their hard work: the hall had been set up, the invitations sent out, the paintings collected. They were just tying up loose ends now. The exposition was only a week away. They were supposed to meet in the hall where the exposition would be to hang up all the paintings. They’d considered hiring a crew to do it, but they knew they would only be content if they did it themselves.

Ginny arrived at ten in the morning, her signature cup of coffee in her hand, ready to ask Blaise to wait a moment so she could finish if before entering the room with the valuable artwork. What she found was nothing short of a miracle, to her.

Blaise was sitting in a wooden chair in the middle of the room. The paintings were around him, draped in protective material or out in the open, stacked together carefully so nothing would get damaged. It looked like chaos and Ginny could just imagine Blaise looking around, taking all of it in with a frown on his face, trying to absorb the atmosphere he wanted to create.

But he wasn’t looking around. He wasn’t even awake.

There was something infinitely beautiful about the scene. There was Blaise, surrounded by the war, by all of it, captured in paint and brushstrokes and canvas, and he finally looked like he’d found some peace.

He lounged in the chair like he was doll someone had put there, his head nodding forward a little and his lips slightly parted – blissfully, beautifully asleep.

She couldn’t stop herself.

Ginny threw out her coffee and entered the hall. She pulled out a chair as quietly as she could and sat down on a fair distant, careful not to wake him. Then she pulled out her sketchbook and pencil case and, with tears in her eyes, she started sketching him.

* * *

On the night of the exposition, everything felt softer around her. They had created a display of the war in all its horror and emotion, but there was something peaceful about it now – as if they were processing it by showing their pain to others. Even Blaise, who hadn’t painted anything, must have felt that way.

They stood beside each other in the middle of the hall. Around them, over a hundred people walked along the walls, looking at the paintings and discussing them softly. Ginny was holding a sparkling glass of champagne and she felt content. Proud, even.

“We did it,” she told him.

“Yes.” Blaise smiled lightly, as if he couldn’t entirely believe it. “We really did something.”

“I’m not sure what I’ll do with my life now.” She was only half-joking, and she thought he could see it.

“Well,” he said, his smile turning a little playful, “Personally, I’m planning on getting a good night of sleep.”

She felt a rush of warmth setting through her chest and she knew it poured from her eyes as she smiled at him. “I know what I’ll do,” she told him. She looked around her at the world she had created in these five short months, and then at the man beside her, scarred, damaged, _healing_.

He was looking at her with awe in his eyes and a tenderness that she thought might keep the entire world together.

“I’ll paint,” she said.

* * *

(Six months later, they held another exposition, named The World After. Its main piece was a huge canvas of a man sleeping on a chair surrounded by paintings.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed our tragic children


End file.
